


i've grown tired of this body (fall apart without me, body)

by piss_soda



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Multi, Scars, Self-Harm, Unreliable Narrator, graphic depictions of self-harm, ish, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29599623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piss_soda/pseuds/piss_soda
Summary: Mark has a history of self-harm, and he's tired of people pointing this fact out to him.Like he just forgot what the fuck his scars stood for.It's exhausting.
Relationships: Mark Fischbach/Amy Nelson, Mark Fischbach/Ethan Nestor, Mark Fischbach/Ethan Nestor/Tyler Scheid, Mark Fischbach/Tyler Scheid, can be read as romantic or platonic - Relationship
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey heyy so just one last heads up and warning: this fic goes in Deep with the self-harm. It's spoken about pretty frankly - motive, method, aftermath/sights included, so if you're struggling with recovery this is absolutely not for you and i highly recommend you leave. stay safe bitches
> 
> also: this does have a few of my own personal opinions that may not line up with yours or your idea of recovery! that's completely cool! just be cautious if a more negative outlook on this kinda stuff could hurt you.
> 
> one last thing, i'm not saying any of them would act like this in this situation !! it's meant for the sake of story and to kinda,,, personify the types of people i've met during recovery lol.  
> it takes a little getting used to to know how to help someone struggling with addiction/self-harm, especially if you don't experience it yourself. that idea is gonna be in here, so amy, ethan, and tyler won't be perfect at it and may act a lil ooc.

“Those scars,” the doctor starts, eyes blank behind his mask and brows furrowed in careful concentration, “those are from you cutting?” 

He never told him that, but it’s pretty obvious, he thinks. Most people don’t end up with a collection of raised skin dotting along their stomach in mis-matched horizontal and diagonal lines.

Even in his desperation to hurt, to feel, to _bleed_ , he should have thought of that - made them all uniform in a way that would pander to some shitty excuse of a TV show trying to portray mental health through a teary-eyed skinny white girl. 

He doesn’t voice any of this. 

“Yes,” he mutters instead, surprisingly concise for the turmoil the question stirs in him. His eyes meet the floor. “They’re old.” 

“Is that still a problem for you? Are you still cutting yourself?” 

The barely-scabbed over cuts on his thighs burn, and he muses at how his lie is thinner than the papery hospital gown he has on. “No.”

-

When he’s home, away from the doctors and the glaring steel and the antiseptic smell that burns his nose, he replays the scene in his mind. 

Replays how cold the doctor’s voice was. How little emotion or concern was there - just a steely question and then onto the next thing. A means to an end. 

He thinks about how that simple question keeps making his eyes dart over to the drawer his razors hide in. He thinks about it a lot. 

And then he realizes he can’t even fault the man. What would he have done if that question _was_ laced with concern? With that certain kind of pity, the one he’s exhausted of getting from the people he tells who have never even considered hurting themselves?

Cry, probably. 

So he tries to move on, and assure himself that the doctor literally _did not care_ and only needed to know in case he could do something about it. In case it interfered with any medical things. He was not up thinking about the random man who had a dozen scars littered across his stomach like Mark was thinking of him. 

But the next doctor comes into mind - the specialist he’s going to have to see in a couple weeks who will probably poke around his stomach just the same and see the same ugly bumps and lines - and he cries. Just a little. 

He bitterly wishes he had thought about that (pointedly ignoring the times he did and was so desperate to simultaneously ache and remove the aching of his mind that he disregarded it), and scratches at the bumps. Like he could tear them away and leave a smooth, clean slate behind. Like he could be “attractive” again, if that even mattered. 

Because that’s the hard part, isn’t it? If people see them - and they will - all they’ll ever think of is pity and disgust. Of how poor Mark hated himself so much he was willing to tear apart his own flawless skin and make himself as ugly as he felt on the inside. They’ll see the scars and they’ll make their own conclusions. It’s obvious what they are, after all.

He curls into himself and lets the suffocating heat of the blankets over his head knock him out. 

\- 

The next time they film in the pool - some stupid dive challenge he already regrets filming - Amy tries to get him to take his shirt off. 

“Come on, Mark!” she calls from behind the camera, smile stretching bright and wide in the sun. “Don’t be a prude!” 

He laughs nervously, and nearly jumps out of his flawed skin when Tyler claps a heavy hand on his back. “Yeah, dude. It’s just us here! You’re gonna overheat in that thing.” 

The long-sleeved rash guard itches against his torso, stretchy material pulling at his skin and twisting awkwardly, but he simply declines again. When no one’s looking, he turns to Tyler conspiratorially. 

“Dude, my scars,” he hisses, grabbing feebly at the fabric of Tyler’s own shirt. Hypocrite.

He had told his friend back in high school, when his life fell apart the first time and he punched the wall so hard he broke his finger. And then again in college when Tyler walked in on him bleeding from several “scratches” on his arm and didn’t quite believe they were from a cat that had snuck into their animal-free dorm. Good times. 

He figured Tyler would remember the last one, at least. It was only a few years ago. 

Instead, the dude shrugs him off, grabbing his shoulders to turn him away from the looming cameras and laughing faces of their other friends. “It’ll be fine. They won’t care.” After a beat, he notices the crease forming between Mark’s eyebrows, and squeezes his biceps. “Didn’t they fade, anyway? The last time I saw your arms I couldn’t see them - I’m sure they won’t, either.”

Frowning at that and remembering he hadn’t _exactly_ let Tyler in on the newer scars, and definitely not on the ones that had barely healed over on his hips and thighs, he opens his mouth to try and bluff - 

And then Amy calls them over so they can start shooting, and he doesn’t get the chance to explain. 

“Mark, you need to take your shirt off!” Ethan complains, making grabby hands at the hem and only barely hiding the flicker of hurt in his eyes when Mark rips away from him. “We’re going to need to write dono names on you, anyway.” 

“You can write them somewhere else,” he shoots back, definitely not being defensive at all. It kind of reminds him of the first time someone else had seen, and he wonders why he’s being just as antsy over scars as he would be with actual, bleeding cuts. 

After all, he could just lie. Say they were old, that he didn’t feel the same itch and desperation to tear apart his own skin until he was left flaying and bleeding and more whole than he had ever been as he did then. Pretend thinking about all of this wasn’t giving him the urge to race inside and add more little lines to his ever-growing collection even now. 

He lied to the doctor, right? 

So the next time they ask and prod, he takes a deep breath and rips the fabric off with reckless abandon, regretting it even before the shirt has made it past his navel. He fumbles with the sleeves in his haste, and that brief pause gives him a moment to silently panic before the uncomfortable rash guard is tossed aside onto the boiling concrete. 

“Oh,” Tyler mumbles into his ear, eyes trained on his stomach like a dog to a bone. “I didn’t -” 

“‘S fine.” It is definitely not fine. 

Amy and Ethan don’t even notice, to their credit. They cheer as the fabric hits the floor, and quickly move on to setting up the video. Until Ethan has to come mic Mark up and his eyes hit a snag on his little myriad of mistakes. 

“W -” he starts, and then blinks and moves closer, like he’s imagining the things. Mark kind of wishes he was. “Are - you… is this? Old?”

_Are you still crazy?_ goes unsaid, and Mark lets out a little noise between a hiss and a sigh. 

“They’re old,” he supplies, reminiscing about the doctor’s response and mourning the fact that Ethan obviously wasn’t keeping this professional like he had. He looks away from the top of Ethan’s head and makes direct eye-contact with Amy, who was not-so-subtly trying to peer over their friend to see what the hubbub was. 

The younger boy doesn’t say anything for a long while, and then seemingly comes out of whatever trance he had been in and sticks the microphone to Mark’s skin with the special tape they had. 

Mark thinks about the times he had taped toilet paper to himself to save on band-aids. And then immediately kicks himself for thinking something so fucking emo it’s laughable. 

“I’m sorry you felt like you - y’know. Had to…” He trails off, stepping away, and Mark tries not to notice how Amy’s eyes widen and then skitter away when Ethan doesn’t cover his stomach anymore. “That’s awful.” 

“You’re telling me,” he jokes, but it falls flat. He’s so tired. Of pandering to other people. Of taking their sadness and pity about his perceived failure away from them. 

He kind of wonders what Ethan thinks happened. If he thinks it was like those shitty TV shows with the silent crying and cigarette butts sticking out of Monster drinks. If he pictured Mark crying - enough to show he’s sad, but not enough to make him look _ugly_ , god forbid - alone in his room, taking a razor to his skin and cutting out neat little lines. Sipping whiskey or vodka or beer out of a little bottle and crying about how unfair the world is. Sending his good-bye letters to his family, because obviously everyone who self-harms is automatically suicidal. Grabbing a bottle of pills with thin, shaking hands, somehow untouched by the blood that’s seeping beautifully out of his neat little wounds. 

In reality it had been one too many stagnant nights, each adding a little line until he lost count. More of a way to ease his boredom and watch the red messily flow down his body until it pooled on the shower floor. A silence for his ever-racing mind. An addiction. He wonders if Ethan would be disappointed. 

They sit in silence for a minute, before Mark finally snaps. “Alright! That’s it! No more staring at my fuckin’ scars and pitying me, we gotta keep rolling.” 

“We don’t pity you -” Amy starts, pity clear in her eyes. Mark walks over and turns the camera on before she can finish, quickly scurrying back to his spot and tugging the shirt over his head. 

They don’t say anything else. 

\- 

That night, he takes his time going to bed. 

They’re all piled in his living room, blankets tugged out from his hall closet and TV long since turned off, and he kind of regrets letting them stay late enough that they resorted to an impromptu sleep-over. 

Finally, after the dogs come inside and the video is completely edited, he truly has no other excuse, and forces himself to join them on the floor. 

They haven’t really… talked, since his earlier outburst. He’s scared of what they’ll say. What they’ll do. The last time he showed Tyler anything, the man had burst out crying, and Mark had to comfort him while wincing every two minutes as the salty tears hit his not-yet-closed cuts. 

Turns out, they don’t say anything. Ethan tugs him into the pile, Amy cards her fingers through his hair, and Tyler pulls him close to his chest. Like they do every night. 

Somehow, the relief he feels is still trumped by the apprehension building inside of him.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a couple weeks later before anyone says anything about it. 

They’re baking, something messy and wild that will probably end up horribly, and Amy notices the absolute filth on his sleeves. 

It’s not really his fault; he had a couple-months-old scar on his inner elbow he didn’t exactly want to bring attention to, so he just… didn’t. 

“Woah, Mark, your sleeves are _nasty_ ,” Amy chides, laughing from the fridge. “Why don’t you roll them up?” 

A silence. And then it seemingly hits them simultaneously. 

He can feel them rounding on him like a pack of wolves to a rabbit, and he shrinks down into the oversized hoodie. He knew they would do this - they would treat him like he’s made of glass, a thing that’s been shattered and left on the floor with the sharp edges pointed skyward. He wishes they wouldn’t, though. 

“Roll up your sleeves,” Tyler commands, too much and too little concern in his voice all at once. It knocks the wind out of his lungs. “Mark. Please.” 

“I haven’t done it,” he whispers. Shame and embarrassment flare bright on his cheeks, and he knows the refusal and lack of eye contact will make them think he’s lying. “All my scars are old, I told you -”

Amy interrupts him with a hand. “Then why don’t you roll up your sleeves? We care about you, Mark, we need to know if you’re doing it again.”

Doing it again. Like he was a toddler getting into something he shouldn’t. A smoker reaching for a pack of cigs. An alcoholic promising themselves just one more drink. 

It’s an addiction, sure. But he’s not suddenly incapable of dealing with it. 

But they’re all looking at him with that god-awful mixture of pity and scolding, so he rolls his sleeves up anyway and lets them view the unbroken skin to their hearts’ content. 

Even if it’s demeaning and humiliating in a way he hasn’t felt in a while. 

\- 

When he actually does relapse, it’s somehow worse. 

He hadn’t meant to, honestly. He wasn’t feeling depressed, or desperate, or sad. He wasn’t silently crying and wasting away in his room or anything. 

But he had replayed the doctor’s voice in his mind so much it had felt more like a daydream than an actual event, and the thought of his drawer with the tiny little blades hidden inside of it hadn’t left his mind since. 

So he gave in. He relapsed. Took the tiny little blade to his skin and didn’t let himself think about the consequences of doing so until after the blood swirled down the drain and the temporary fascination with it faded. Bandaged himself up in suffocating numbness and tried to come up with a plan to keep it from his three nosy friends who would only pity him more and expect _him_ to comfort _them._

Obviously, a plan made in such circumstances didn’t last long. 

He’s sitting with Ethan on the couch, watching a movie. His arm is curled around him - a rare occurrence, seeing as he’s usually too touch-averse to cuddle - and Mark is drinking in the physical contact to fill in the cold void of anger and disappointment with himself the burning cuts on his ribs cause. 

And then Ethan’s hand slips under his shirt, and his fingers brush over the raised skin. 

He doesn’t say anything about it, just lifts the fabric up and exposes the shame. Mark doesn’t even protest. 

A tense silent passes between them, then. Mark tries to decipher the unreadable expression on his face - the same one he had donned when he was face-to-face with his scars - but comes up with nothing. It scares him.

“You did it again,” Ethan finally murmurs after a minute. His fingertips dig into his skin, just to the right of the aggravated wounds. “You - I thought they were old.” 

Mark doesn’t answer. There really is no answer.

“They _are_ old. Just… not these ones,” he says instead, knowing it’s not what either of them want him to say. Ethan’s grip tightens, and Mark feels the trickle of apprehension swell into a stream, then a river.

What if he wanted to stop being friends? What if he tried to get Mark locked up in the looney bin? _Fuck_ , what if he tried to take his goddamn door off and treated him like a petulant child? Ethan’s voice breaks him out of his reverie. 

“I… I have to tell the others.” It’s exactly the phrase he doesn’t want to hear. “Mark, this is - you have a _problem_ , this is serious.” 

He can feel his heart jump into his throat, and a wave of nausea passes over him. He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want them to treat him differently, or worry, or - fuck. Doesn’t want them to even know. 

“I _know_ it’s a problem,” he hisses, fear and anger and shame burning hot and bright and melding into something sharp and pointed. “I’ve been dealing with this for fucking _years_ \- before I even knew you existed. Don’t you think I know it’s bad? I’m not doing this because it’s _fun_.” 

Ethan blinks, like he hadn’t expected that, and Mark realizes he’s the first kind of person. The kind that has never come close to something like this, never had an addiction like this, never felt the need to break and hurt and destroy until everything went away. The kind that views him, the second kind, as an anomaly that needed to be fixed for everyone else’s comfort. 

He blinks back, and when Ethan starts to talk about how much Mark hurting hurts _him_ , he gets up and leaves. Not another word is shared between them until dinner. 

-

“So,” Tyler starts, pointedly ignoring eye contact and already informing Mark of what that night’s dinner discussion was going to be about. “Ethan said something earlier…”

Rolling his eyes, Mark stabs at his chicken. “I relapsed. Just say that, please.” He hates pussyfooting around this, too many stilted conversations in the past leaving him shaking and panicky because people were too scared to say the obvious. “It’s not a big deal -”

“You’re hurting yourself, Mark, of course it’s a big deal!” Ethan’s eyes are already glassy, somehow. Fucking hell. 

“Mark, we need to talk about this. You need help,” Tyler interjects, staring at him pointedly. 

Amy just silently pushes around her own food, but the tiny sniffles coming from that side of the table clue him in to what’s happening, anyway. 

“Oh my god.” The plate clatters against his cup as he pushes it back, but he doesn’t have time to regret it. “Stop fucking - jesus. I’m not suddenly fragile and helpless, now. This has been going on for years, without you guys.” 

All three of them fall silent, and Mark leaves the table without eating. 

He tries not to think about his drawer.


	3. Chapter 3

He keeps relapsing, after that. The sting of a cut fades, and he already wants to feel it again. Already wants to see the blood bead up and smear along his skin. 

The thought is in his mind, now. It has been since the doctor’s office. It sticks to his skull like gum to a shoe and won’t leave him alone, no matter how many pillows he punches or movies he watches. 

Because that’s the thing. Those coping mechanisms are for the depressed. The ones who hurt themselves to avoid hurting others. The ones who want to mark their skin and make it as ugly as their thoughts are. 

And sure, sometimes that’s his motivation. Sometimes it’s an emotional catharsis. 

But most times, it’s him just being fucked up. Romanticizing something he shouldn’t and deriving pleasure from the wicked thoughts that come. It’s not about the pain anymore - it’s about the blood and the thrill and the thought that he’s destroying himself bit by bit. 

There truly is no replacement for the feeling of metal on his skin, the sight of blood getting on everything and tainting the sterile white of his shower. 

He knows it’s an addiction. That much is obvious. 

Still, he wishes he wasn’t addicted to something so fucked up. 

He keeps wearing hoodies. Stops caring so much about hiding it. The others don’t say much if they happen to see an angry red line when his waistband droops, or his shirt rides up. 

Obviously they’re not silent about it. But they don’t know how scars work like he does. They haven’t had time to memorize the healing patterns and watch how a thin cut will bleed, then scab, then flake, then fade to red and then to white. Or how a thicker cut will start to raise as it heals, and turn a deep purplish-red before fading to white and then blending in with his skin. They wouldn’t be able to tell how old a cut is.

So he lies. Tells them they’re old, or ones they’ve seen before. They don’t ask, he doesn’t tell. 

It’s fine, for a while. He manages. 

And then he cuts too deep, too large, and he panics and finds himself crying into Amy’s arms. 

“Fuck, fuck, I didn’t mean to…” He hisses as Amy dabs hydrogen peroxide on it, watching the compound bubble. “Fuck, I really didn’t mean… This is going to scar, the viewers will see it, oh god…”

“Mark, shh. It’s okay.” She rips open a big bandaid - one that has two tabs so the user can wrap it around an inconvenient spot - and pats it on his skin. “If it scars, what does it matter? You have plenty others.” 

He flinches at that. She stops. 

“Mark. Scars aren’t bad. They’re just… proof you survived this.” 

Proof you survived this.

Signs you’ve lived.

Warrior marks.

Beautiful, worthy, amazing.

They’re divine. They’re golden cracks in a bowl. 

Whatever you want, he’s already heard it all. 

He’s so sick of pretending they’re something they aren’t. 

“How are they proof I survived this if I’m _still_ doing it? I haven’t survived shit.” He jerks his arm a little, and Amy tsks as she tries to dab peroxide onto a few more cuts. “Sorry, I know you’re trying to help, but… God. They’re just - a bad part of my history I want to forget.” 

“They make you who you are. You grew stronger -” 

“They didn’t make me anything! My fucked-upness didn’t make me who I am today. Don’t you get what a messed up thing that is to think? That I was ‘made’ by my own weakness?” 

Amy blinks up at him, eerily similar to the way Ethan had stared at him before, and frowns. “You’re not weak. You were in pain.” 

He blinks back down at her for a minute, fighting back the lump in his throat and burning behind his eyes, and laughs. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m not…” His vision starts to blur, and he clears his throat, not sure what to say. “Why do you think I do it?” He gestures to his arm, to the soaked-through band-aid. “This.” 

Instead of her backing down like he expected, she bites her lip and looks away. “I don’t know. Same reason anyone else does it, I guess. You’re depressed and need to cope with all that… ick. Or just want to hurt yourself because you don’t feel worthy enough, or something. Which doesn’t even make sense, you’re one of the best people I’ve ever met, and -” 

He cuts off her rambling. “Sometimes. But… Ames, it’s - it’s more of an addiction, honestly. It’s usually not an emotional thing for me.” 

And then he waits for a moment, internally begging her to respond, but she just looks up at him with that same pathetic owlish expression. He doesn’t know what to say. Her hand trails over the scars on his stomach.

“I don’t understand,” she mutters, moving away from them (finally, finally, she was starting to _burn_ ) and moving to toss the bloody toilet paper in the bin by the toilet. “Why didn’t you want to show them, at the pool? You’ve lived with them for ages. It just shows everyone that you’re human -”

So he starts talking about them. “They’re not proof I’m human. Or pretty. They’re not even interesting. Whatever tumblr positivity post you want to regurgitate back to me.” His own fingers trace lightly over the raised skin, and he sighs. “They’re sad. And shameful. I don’t want to put attention on them for a reason.” 

“It’s not healthy to think like that -”

“It’s honest, though.” He doesn’t meet her eyes. Doesn’t think he could deal with the pity in them. “I’m not going to romanticize something like this.” 

“Then don’t.” She pats his knee and stands up, swiping away imaginary crumbs from the bathroom counter. “But don’t automatically think they make you sad or less-than just because they’re there. They’re part of you, just like your surgery scar or the one you have on your ankle from that scooter. You don’t hate yourself because of those, do you?” 

He doesn’t have an answer for her. Can’t think of one. 

She tosses him a small smile and leaves him alone to think in the bathroom.

\- 

He still doesn’t show off his scars and cuts. They haven’t suddenly become a source of pride for him. 

But he’s not as paranoid about hiding them, either. 

Of course, he never takes off his shirt around strangers, and wouldn’t dream of letting his viewers see them. Fear of triggering someone coping with their own issues or exposing a tiny, hurting child to the concept stops him from opening up. 

They know he’s struggling, though. He makes a passing comment, talking about how his mental health had tanked because of an addiction. They make their own conclusions, and he lets them. It works out.

He stops overheating in hoodies and long-sleeve shirts if a simple t-shirt would do. He lets his partners run their hands over his sides, knowing they won’t mention the raised skin there, trusting they know what to avoid. Even when he does relapse - because he inevitably does, he’s not cured or anything - he doesn’t make such an effort to avoid help. To avoid _them_.

It's an addiction, of course - there are still nights he feels out of control and crazed with a need to tear himself apart and burn from the inside out. But it's nothing he can't handle. 

He grows used to the pride that swells within him every time he reaches a new clean-streak milestone. It helps him stop feeling so disgusted with himself, and he's happy.


End file.
